​Letter 37:
Dear Stella

Dear Stella,

I loved communing with your environment sitting on your couch and conversing about your works. Over twenty years, how many times did I do so? I wonder. I do so today but I am communing with smaller shelves and small sculptural objects. Communing with the installation at the 2017 John Michael Kohler Art Center in Wisconsin was a return to life decades ago. I was filled with love for you Stella. During your lifetime, your work overshadowed you. Your works transformed you into an artist of long-standing time. You will not be forgotten. You did tell me that your works “made people forget that you were present.” Today your presence is undeniable. Yes Stella, you are still speaking. Your installations speak with much sensitivity. Sensitivity resultant from decades in Manhattan, from decades of your commitment. You did not follow fashion. You followed your own concepts, with a serious intent. An undeniable intent. An original intent. I remember you telling me that your libraries were a result of having a grandfather and great – grandfather who were intellectuals. Jewish intellectuals, you said. Yes Stella, you and your grandfathers are still speaking.

A library shelf is a wealth of thought. A library shelf is a wealth of form. A library shelf is a wealth of movement and sightlines. A sightline may be active because of palette. A sightline may be a caress because of tone. Yes, a library shelf is a wealth. A wealth of order. A wealth of structure. An ordering, a structuring. Your library shelves are silent. Your library shelves are silent prayers. Silent operas. Stella, you also were a virtuoso.

Your castings of faces are poignant. Your castings of faces are imbued with a love. Your castings of faces are the subjects of sightlines. A pausing they are. They pause poignantly. A pause created. A pause of quiet love. A pause loved silently. Your castings of faces are autobiographical. They are historical and of an age. A silent chorus. A silent script. Yes, a silent prayer.

Alison